If ya think I'm soxy

I used to live a sheltered life.  I used to think I knew what I like to knit, what I don't, what I'm interested in trying next and what I really can't be bothered with.  My knitting existence was predictable, sane (by my standards; an admittedly dicey frame of reference) and comfortable.

Modern sockmaking accouterments de rigeur: Go Knit pouch (sock people walk while knitting), Signature DPNs (size 2, 6" length) and Socks That Rock Lightweight in Tanzanite (Pattern I made up and am unlikely to remember for the 2nd sock)  All the cool kids have these things, and they really make it fun.

Modern sockmaking accouterments de rigeur: Go Knit pouch (sock people walk while knitting), Signature DPNs (size 2, 6" length) and Socks That Rock Lightweight in Tanzanite (Pattern I made up and am unlikely to remember for the 2nd sock)  All the cool kids have these things, and they really make it fun.

I really should have known better, but there it is.  See, my true confession is this:  I've just never been all that into socks. 

I find them fiddly: all those teensy DPNs are tough for me to manage, and two circulars are even worse. 

I think they are tricksy: Everyone has their favorite way to turn a heel and no two are alike - how can a person trust it will ever work? 

I find them redundant: The big payoff when you finally finish a sock is that you get to start all over again from the beginning, or else never get to wear them. Something about that just breaks my heart.

Or so I thought.

I went to the Sock Summit, conveniently thrown in my home town, to see my knitting friends (sock maniacs, all), take a few meetings, and do a little shopping.  I even got to attend some classes.  

Somewhere in between those activities, the fumes must have gotten to me.  In class,  I learned a whole lot about all things socky.  In the marketplace, I was seduced by beautiful tools and yarn.  My friends waxed poetic about tops toes and everything in between.  But best of all, everyplace I went, and everybody I met felt like home.  The Mother Ship had definitely landed, and it was such a relief to stop my frantic paddling and roll with the tide.  What complete luxury to drop all pretense of normalcy and blend in with the other teeming throngs of string-loving weirdos. 

I bought sock blockers with Scottish Terrier cutouts.  I spent big money on DPNs I've been coveting for a year.  I grabbed a skein of STR lightweight in my all time favorite purple and let the waves of socktitude wash away the last of my feeble reservations.  I put down the (now extremely weighty and totally unportable) Red Faery and cast on 60 wee sock stitches.  No pattern, no plan, no deadline.  Just me and the sticks and the string, singing whatever song would come.  Thank you, my knitting bretheren (and sister-en) for a delightful rest in your embrace.

I feel Stronger.  Faster.  Soxier.